


Epilogue

by mossologist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Graphic Violence, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Miscarriage, Murder Commited by Canon Character, Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-05 04:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14035791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossologist/pseuds/mossologist
Summary: Sherlock visits Janine in her new house to make amends after the events of Season 3, but what happens next takes them both by surprise and changes the course of their lives forever. For all the Sherline fans, and because I just can't stop shipping unpopular pairings. Set in an AU where Mary survives but Molly dies. Don't hate me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally the epilogue of my novel, 'Pulse of my Heart', which is over on FF dot net, but it works better alone. What if Sherlock and Janine really did love each other? What if he does retire to the house on the Sussex downs, complete with beehives? And how did this situation come about?
> 
> I own nothing, BBC does.

Better than Ice Cream

Janine is kneeling on the front step planting wisteria when he arrives, hair twisted loosely on top of her head and paint stains on her dungarees. The creak of the gate makes her look up, look right at him, with an expression he can’t quite define.

Pity, perhaps. Certainly not the anger he’d anticipated.

“You’d be surprised how many buyers fit your description.” He ventures into the small front garden, has a proper look around. “But it was the bees that swung it in the end.”

Janine turns to go inside, clinging to the basket of gardening tools, but lingers on the step longer than she should. “We can’t talk out here,” she says, “the neighbours are something fierce.”

“Wisteria takes over five years to flower,” he says, unsure if he should take the liberty of closing the door, “don’t hold your breath.”

She dumps the basket in a corner of the entrance hall next to the shoe rack, where it deposits particles of compost on the oak floor. “I’m trying to get on with my life here, Sherlock. What do you want? I’m fairly sure it’s not to give me gardening advice.”

“I was thinking about you the other day and I realised that I never actually apologised for the way I treated you, and I thought that was extremely ungentlemanly of me.”

“I said we’re even. Don’t you remember? You called me a whore.”

“Did I? Oh. I was high as a kite; I could’ve said anything, would’ve agreed to anything.” He drapes his coat over one elbow. “Anyway, I don’t feel like I’ve been punished enough yet, keep looking over my shoulder, thinking there’s going to be some horrible trick right around the corner.”

“It would have been more gentlemanly not to do it in the first place.”

Sherlock has the courtesy to appear contrite, looks down. “I realise how much I’ve hurt the people closest to me.”

“You always know the right thing to say,” she shakes her head, almost humorously, “but your words are like poison.”

“I’ve changed, Janine. Coming so close to death changes a man. I’ve chosen to humble myself.”

Her hand is on the door again. “You didn’t come here to apologise, you just can’t stand not being in control. I was only ever an instrument to you and I will not be the instrument of your validation.”

He falters. “I - I just wanted to see your face.”

She rolls her head and laughs. “I had to sit there in that hospital room and pretend I didn’t want to hold onto what I thought we had. Just brush it off and carry on. I broke my most important rule for you, Sherl, don’t get involved. And you made me look like the world’s biggest idiot.”

“I never lied to you, Janine.”

“Oh, please. You were on heroin the whole time. Is that what it took for you to be with me? You had to anaesthetise yourself just to touch me - ”

“No! It wasn’t like that. Every moment we were together, it was wonderful.”

“Are you on it now?”

“No! I’m - The man you think I am, that is who I am. You know me. You’re the only one who really does know me, I - ”

“Don’t you understand?” For the first time her voice breaks, and it is like a plea for sanity. “I was in love with you.”

This silences him. “I - ”

“If you show up on my doorstep whenever you bloody feel like it, how will I ever get over you?”

“I don’t want you to get over me.” He kisses her urgently on the lips, lets her go quickly, gauging her reaction. It is completely the wrong thing to do, he knows that. Inelegant and presumptuous and disrespectful.

They stare at each other, chests heaving. The world turns at a thousand miles per hour and the bees continue to collect nectar, buzzing around at the bottom of the garden. Nothing changes except the wisp of dark hair falling to her cheek.

“Dare you to do that again,” she breathes.

He grabs her roughly by the nape of her neck and arches her head back. Her lips are burning red as he brings her closer, her expression one of fear and hunger. He kisses her passionately and they collide like the desert and the sea.

***

They fuck silently on the sitting-room floor.

He is substantial and hard. His large hand is on her throat in part caress, part asphyxiation, and it is a rough, brutish affair, just how she likes it. She allows herself to be a vessel, does not give in to the temptation to direct his actions; he needs to be in control. He in turn does not allow himself to climax, but takes care of her needs first. His tongue is graceful and his hands are adroit. He is like a man starved of beauty, clinging on for dear life, as if he might be swept away in a storm. He ruts into her with precision and determination, even though she is already bruised, until he finally abandons himself and collapses flushed and satisfied.

She lies, sweaty and spent beside him. “What. The fuck. Was that?”

His face cracks into a laugh of pure joy.

They both examine the ceiling for a time, panting and astonished, until Janine pulls her knickers back on, but doesn’t bother to get dressed, wrapping herself instead in a soft throw from the sofa. It is patterned with turquoise and red in the sunlight streaming through the window.

***

Ably assisted by pint of Häagen-Dazs, they give their relationship a post mortem at the kitchen table.

“I’d love to hear the story of how you learned to do that.” Janine scrapes the chocolate sauce from the top of the tub and licks it gracefully off the spoon.

He ignores that. “Do you often have ice-cream for lunch?”

“Only on special occasions.”

“Is this a special occasion?”

“It was the first time you’ve had sex in over a decade.”

He smiles coyly, trying not to look too proud of himself and licks his spoon. “You’ve just made history.”

“Was it what you expected?”

“Better.”

She beams. “When you’re honest about what you want from it, all that’s left is something pure.”

“It was also the first time I’ve done it sober.”

“Wow. You didn’t know what you were missing.”

He looks down at that, ruminating on the ice-cream, unable to meet her gaze. “It was my choice to live that way. There’s no room for pity here.”

“I’m not threatened by you being damaged, Sherlock. I’m not intimidated by your past.” When he doesn’t respond, she changes the subject. “Anyway, you did tell me a lie. You didn’t tell me that Charles was the case you were working on.”

“It wasn’t a lie, it was an omission. It’s not the same thing.”

“If you’d let me in, I could’ve helped you,” she says through a full mouth.

“It wouldn’t have been safe.”

“Don’t pretend it was to protect me. It was never about me.”

“Then why can’t I get you out of my mind?” He throws his spoon down.

That has the opposite effect he intends and suddenly there is a chasm between them.

The air oscillates with renewed tension. Her face burns from within. “Tell me the truth. Did you kill Charles?”

His words are non-committal, but there is truth in the way he scrapes his chair back from the table. “I don’t have to sit here and be interrogated.” He gets up and goes into the sitting-room for his things.

She follows him, stopping in the doorway. “That’s it, then? You’re just going to fuck me and leave.”

“I didn’t come here with the intention of fucking you.” He gets tangled in his jacket.

“How the fuck did it happen, then?”

He wrestles with his shoes for a second, getting frustrated with the laces. Then his shoulders slump. “I’m only human.”

“Stay.” She softens. “Have a shower. Sit and talk with me. I promise I won’t interrogate you. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It wasn’t how you think with Magnussen.” He attends to his shoes once again. “Lady Smallwood went behind my brother’s back and ordered me to execute him.”

Janine looks aghast at his brutal choice of words, despite her best efforts to remain impassive.

He goes on, “she promised me protection in return for avenging her husband’s suicide. Although I don’t think it was suicide, it was more like murder by remote control.”

“Protection?”

“Only that part didn’t turn out as planned, did it? Because she decided to save herself and sell me down the river. Never trust a bloody politician.” When she doesn’t speak, he comes over to her, his greatcoat in his hand. “Are you Okay?”

“I - I’m - How are you free?”

“Mycroft,” He says. “I just needed to see you one last time before I go after Moriarty’s people.”

“Will I see you again?” She wraps her blanket more firmly around herself, suddenly cold despite the clement weather.

“I honestly don’t know.” He moves a little closer, intending to kiss her gently as a sort of goodbye.

But she won’t let him. She moves her face away, so that he cannot make a connection or see her eyes.

He straightens out his collar. “Are you scared of me?”

“I’m scared for you. But this - This whole thing has gone way further than I ever meant it to.”

“I’ve made sure that you’ll never suffer any recriminations because of me. You can rest easy.” He gives a small smile as he thinks of something. He strokes her bare arm. “And you got your ‘just once’ after all. Now, get on with your life.”

“Sherlock,” she says flatly, by way of a farewell, but she cannot bear to watch him go.

“Take care of those bees.”

The door clunks shut.


	2. Chapter 2

No More Chocolate

It’s one of those nights when the rain pelts down relentlessly and seems to want to drown you. A few cars pass her on the bridge, spraying a mist up into their headlight beams, but it is otherwise deserted. Her shoes are already saturated and the flimsy umbrella is woefully inadequate. She wasn’t given enough time to prepare for bad weather.

As she reaches the very middle of the bridge, the visibility improves and she sees the dark silhouette leaning over the balustrade. “Oh, thank God,” she mutters to herself, and then louder, “Sherlock!” His head jerks up from whatever he is doing and her pace quickens to a trot. She can see that he is already soaked through, his hair dripping onto his collar and the droplets running off his coat like a duck’s back. She catches him. “Did you just - ”

“It’s done,” he says without emotion, looking to the water.

“Shit,” she curses, peering over the edge, “well I guess the evidence is gone forever, so.”

“This is the way it has to be.”

“No, this is the way you want it to be.”

“I will find them and I will kill them.”

“You can’t keep going on these personal crusades,” she sighs, exhausted. She has watched him lose himself to this case over the last few months, and he is beginning to crumble. He has visited her in the little cottage dozens of times, even though he is supposed to be under house arrest. Each time they fuck, and then he lies in her arms and tells her how the search is going. Each time he becomes more and more distracted. The sex is his only release. She doesn’t mind being his source, his comfort, his sounding board, but she wants something more for herself.

She hasn’t seen him since ‘those’ headlines in the paper, a couple of weeks.

“John sent you.” He jams his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders in an unconscious effort to prevent the cold rain running down the back of his neck.

“He somehow thought you’d be more likely to listen to me.” She offers him space under the umbrella, which he accepts, despite its inadequacy. Now that he is closer, she can feel his life-force, absorb his warmth. "I think he knows, Sherl."

He looks at her with sincerity and regret. “Nothing is going to change my mind.”

“Just - Come back with me, get dried off and we can talk this through.”

“The time for talking is over!” He is suddenly inflamed. “She's dead and it’s all my fault.”

“No, no, no!” she pleads, grabbing onto his coat with her free hand, “you’re not the one to blame in all of this. You’re a free man now!”

“What point is freedom, if there’s nothing left to live for? It’s all meaningless now.”

“Don’t you do that, don’t you dare!” She jabs him with her finger. “Don’t make her sacrifice a pointless tragedy. You deserve to live your life. She did what she did because she believed in you, Sherlock. She believed you were worth it.”

“That’s what’s killing me. She saved my life three times and now she’s killing me!” He screws up his face in horror and confusion and frantically wipes away tears mixed with rain. “Why did she do it? I’m nothing. I’m a total fucking piece of shit - ”

“No!” Janine almost screams at him, beginning to sob now. “You are a gift. Molly knew that. She told everyone who would listen.”

Her words seem to give him the strength to galvanise himself. He stands up straight and takes a deep shuddering breath. The street-lights glint in his eyes. “This ends now.”

“What are you doing?” She is losing him from her grasp as he formulates his escape.

“America seems like a good place to start.”

She will not do him the indignity of begging, bargaining with him to stay, as her grip loosens. She knows what kind of a man he is. “My door is always open to you.”

He is finally out of reach. “I know.”

She stands on the middle of Blackfriars Bridge in the pouring rain and watches him disappear into the night. She never felt alone until she met him.

* * *

 

There is no news for three long years. Janine has made a fortune from her memoirs, yet she has stayed in the same house, the little cottage on the edge of the Sussex downs, in the hope that he might one day come back.

It is when she is returning from yet another book signing that she receives a call out of the blue. “Hello?” She picks up the receiver of her vintage Bakelite desk phone. At first she thinks it is a prank, but then she realises that the person on the other end is just out of breath.

_“Janine?”_

“John Watson, is that you?” She slips off her coat and drapes it over her chair, giving him her full attention.

He is silent for a second more, brimming with joy and pride, but also with fear. _“I’ve found him.”_

All the years of practicing for this moment haven’t prepared her for how it feels and her words catch in her throat. She panics. She’s excited, overjoyed, terrified. A thousand questions crowding her mind. “Is – is he Okay? Is he hurt?”

She hears John take a deep breath on the other end of the line. _“Don’t be alarmed. He’s… he’s physically Okay…”_

“But?” Her heart plummets.

_“But he’s broken, Janine. I don’t know what happened - ”_

“Can I see him?”

_“We’re still at the clinic. I think it’s best if we come to you. He, uh, he needs a place to stay. He really shouldn’t be alone at the moment - ”_

“John,” she stops him, “it’d be my pleasure.”

***

She hears nothing for forty eight hours, which she spends cleaning, cooking and filling up the freezer. Practical things help to take the edge off her concerns.

What will he be like? Has he lost weight, changed his hair? Where has he been all this time? What catastrophic events caused the breakdown? Is he responsive, or catatonic? Will he know her? The thought that he might have lost his memory, or even his mind, is petrifying, unspeakable. And even if his mind is sound, he might still be a stranger; people change a lot in three years.

At last, just when he fears seem to be careening out of control, she receives a text message.


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast at Tiffany's

They arrive on her doorstep at precisely a quarter past three. She will always remember the time. The wisteria is finally flowering, and she’s made a sign that says _‘Wisteria Lodge’_ for the side of the entrance. It’s only a small chalkboard, with little squiggles around the edge, but it’ll do for now.

Sherlock touches it lightly as he passes through.

Janine is somewhat relieved. She holds the front door for them and thinks that Sherlock seems quite himself, even though he is dressed casually and hasn’t shaved for a week. He looks absolutely exhausted, but it’s more like he’s just finished a minor case, rather than a three year odyssey.

He is yet to make eye contact with her, as if they are merely fulfilling a business appointment. He frowns as if he has forgotten something important and needs to make a call, words ever on the cusp of his lips but not quite spilling forth. He takes his jacket off and hangs it on the bottom banister, just like he used to, while John finds a place for the overnight bag. They both politely slip off their shoes.

John makes abashed small talk to cover the awkward gravity of the occasion. “I love what you’ve done with the hallway, Janine. Very impressive.”

“You’ll have to bring Mary round to see how the place is coming along. Ooh, how’s your little princess?”

“Not so little any more. She’s three and a half now, and running rings around us, I can tell you.”

John remembers why they are there and guides Sherlock into the sitting room with a “come on, mate,” and a gentle hand on his shoulder. He makes him lie down on the sofa and places a blanket over him. Sherlock closes his eyes gratefully.

When she’s sure he’s asleep, Janine stoops down, adjusts the blanket and kisses him on the forehead. She goes into the kitchen to make a drink for John and they talk about the events of the last week or so, cradling cups of tea in their hands.

John recants how he received an internet tip-off and traveled to Tibet. The abbot of the Himalayan monastery told John that a man had arrived in a disheveled and mentally disturbed state, giving no explanation as to who he was, or how he got there. This mysterious stranger stayed for months, barely eating or sleeping, only meditating for hours. The man never spoke a word during his stay, and because he was so harmless and seemed to fit in with the other pilgrims, the abbot didn’t question it.

He did, however, fit the missing person description that John had posted on Twitter.

Because of John’s blogging, it had become a movement of its own; # _findsherlock_. People from all over the world left messages claiming they’d spotted him. John hoped against hope that this would be the one; he’d lead so many fruitless searches.

“It must have been really difficult for you, seeing him like that.” Janine watches John, blowing across the top of her tea.

“He didn’t want to come away at first, said he had important experiments to do on the astral plain.”

“Wow, that is messed up. How did you convince him?”

“I told him Rosie wanted to see her godfather,” and John smiles at the memory, “he said, ‘oh, I’m so sorry, I missed her growing up.’ It was the first conversation he’d had after taking a vow of silence for nearly a year. He didn’t even know how long he’d been there, thought it was decades. I knew for sure then that something wasn’t quite right.”

Janine looks across at Sherlock, snoring lightly on the sofa. He looks so innocent and so much younger than his thirty-six years. “What’s wrong with him?”

“They’ve given him a complete work-up. Apart from slight malnutrition, he’s in good health. The doctors said he’s just come to the end of himself, needs a complete rest. There’s no psychosis, so you needn’t worry about that. He just can’t cope, that’s all.”

“I’ll take some time off, do whatever he needs - ”

“It’s not going to be pretty, Janine.”

“I know that. But life’s not pretty, is it? Love’s not pretty.” She’s slipped up. She wonders if John knows about their affair, but he doesn't pick up on her words, or else deems it inappropriate to tackle at the present time. “Did he say what he was doing, where he’s been all this time?”

“Not yet and I don’t want to push too hard either. We’ll let him open up in his own time. We have to be prepared to never know what happened. You know what he’s like.”

It’s getting late. Janine asks John to stay the night and he calls Mary to let her know. If she’s completely honest, she’s not ready to be left alone with a man she barely knows. She warms up one of the casseroles and they eat in silence, too raw to make any more conversation. When John finally makes his excuses and goes up to the guest room, she sinks into the easy-chair and watches Sherlock sleep.

***

The next thing she knows it is ten o’clock in the morning. The sofa is bare, save for the crumpled blanket. “John!” she calls, panicked.

She walks through the house calling, “Sherlock! John!”. After a cursory look in the kitchen, she bounds up the stairs. “John!” She pushes the bedroom door. Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, wearing only his boxers.

She is flushed and breathless. “Oh, thank God, I thought you’d done a runner.”

“I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful.” He’s holding a damp toothbrush in his hand. “John had to go. He left a note, but I didn’t read it. Do you mind if I run a bath?”

“Not at all. Go ahead. Actually, why don’t I do that for you - ”

She pushes, flustered, into the bathroom and starts on the taps. He follows her, curious. His hand closes over hers on the faucet. She freezes.

“It’s Okay,” he says gently, his voice slower and deeper than she remembers, the words falling flat as if he is reading from a bad script, “you don’t have to do that.”

She looks up at him. It is Sherlock, but at the same time it is not him. He is even gaunter than that night on the bridge. He has a few more scars and there are dark circles under his startling eyes. She longs to see his beautiful smile, resume their witty exchanges, but the spark is missing. "I want to."

He senses her discomfort. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was absolutely ragged. I hadn’t been able to switch off until I got here.”

“You slept most of the day and all of the night. Must’ve been restorative for you.” The words don’t seem to fit, too clinical somehow, but the knowledge that he feels he can rest here is a comfort to her. She continues to fill the bath and shakes off his hand carefully. She doesn’t want to make him feel unwanted, or like she’s angry.

It is awkwardly quiet until the bath is full. She reaches for the bubbles, but he stops her hand again, takes the bottle from her. He places it back in its spot on the window sill and she feels compelled to look him in the face. The striations of his eyes haven’t changed. Her Sherlock is in there somewhere.

“Thank you for this, Janine.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

This is definitely not like him. The man she knows doesn’t apologise for merely existing. The extent of his emotional brokenness is beginning to dawn on her. “My house is your house for as long as you want. Or need.” She manages to get the words out with a lump in her throat and quickly leaves.

Downstairs, she holds herself together until she gets to the kitchen. She stands in the corner of the pantry and covers her face with her hands, willing the tears back where they came from.

It’s no use.

She is totally unequipped for this, she can see that now. It’s not just the events of the last few years that have left him a shell, it’s his whole life. His upbringing, his job, faking his death and having to leave his loved ones behind, killing people for the secret service. Getting shot. The sister. She just clings to the hope that she is enough to bring him a little healing. It is clear now that there is no hope of ever resuming their relationship, and she scolds herself for ever thinking it; what he needs now is a friend.

She stays there until she hears Sherlock get out of the bath and start moving around, then she sniffs and dries her eyes. It wouldn’t do for him to see her being weak. She uses the cloakroom toilet and busies herself making toast and coffee. Only then does she find John’s note, propped on the stove. _Janine, you’re amazing_ , it says on the envelope in the doctor’s untidy script, _call if you need me._

The envelope contains a much longer handwritten note from the psychiatrist, saying Sherlock must have complete rest for at least a couple of months, nothing more strenuous than a walk on the beach. Okay, she thinks, can do that. There is a lovely beach less than a mile away. He must not work under any circumstances, and he must try to write down how he is feeling every day. It also says he needs help adhering to normal patterns of sleeping and eating. Well, they knew that already. The psychiatrist has also written his number and instructions to call when Sherlock feels like he’s ready to talk.

After reading the note, she feels a wee bit stronger and fetches a brand new notebook and pen from her study.

When he comes down, he’s dressed in jeans and a charcoal-grey T-shirt. He has bare feet. She is pleased when he sits down at the scrubbed table and begins eating immediately. She takes only a cup of coffee for herself, leaning on the counter, hoping he doesn’t see she’s been crying. What was she thinking? Of course he sees she's been crying. This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s tired, not dead.

As if reading her thoughts, he looks up at her, perhaps wondering why she's not joining him.

She scoots into the other chair.

“Good morning,” she says, attempting to reset the tone after their tense conversation in the bathroom. She searches his face for answers, but there are none.

“Good coffee,” he says quietly.

“It’s de-caff. Doctor’s orders.”

He continues eating. She always could rely on him to eat toast, if nothing else. There is more awkward silence.

“Sherlock,” she ventures, “you don’t have to talk about what happened, but if you want to, I’m here for you.” He drops a crust on the plate and gives her a ghost smile. She wants him to protest, have the last word like he used to, but he has nothing clever to say. It is heart-breaking. “This is for you.” She gives him the notebook.

He regards it with suspicion, his coffee mug still pressed to his lips, but even if he detests the idea, he still takes it passively. “Thank you.”

“John was worried you’d be resistant to talking about your feelings, but it’s essential for your recovery that you write things down.”

They both cringe at the word ‘recovery’.

“I’m not sure how I feel, to be honest.” He puts his mug down and looks at his own hands, turns them over. “It’s like I don’t recognise myself. It’s hard to look in the mirror.”

“That’s understandable.” She drains her cup.

“Apparently it’s a symptom of an acute emotional crisis.”

“Well that’s a start, you need to write that down.” She gets up and starts clearing away the breakfast things. She has to do something to break this awful tension. “What would you like to do today? We could just sit and read if you like. I have some appointments to cancel, but then I’m all yours.”

“Have you got a car?”

“A Renault, round the side of the house. I only use it to get to the station and back.”

“Can we go into the village? I need a few things.” He rubs his stubble self-consciously. “A decent razor amongst other things. I was in Shari until a few days ago. Those monks still shave with a bic.”

“Of course. Just let me sort myself out, alright. I slept in my clothes.”

He looks down. “I - I - I’m not sure if I’m ready to see people yet.”

She comes over and squeezes his hand warmly. It is as responsive as she hoped, squeezes back. It's a small gesture, but it means a lot to her. He does something surprising then, gets up from the table and faces her, their hands still linked.

“It’ll be alright, so it will,” she says.

He opens his mouth to say something else but falters. She waits patiently. Finally, he speaks. “I missed you terribly.”

“I missed you,” she breathes and embraces him desperately, clings to his neck and buries her face in his shoulder. He is like a statue, but gradually his hands come up to hold onto her too and he strokes her hair slowly. Somehow this is worse. He may never leave behind this jaded shadow of himself and return to the vibrant man who used to show up at her door.

It’s all she can do to not think of a time when he was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

Tea for Two

The food and sleep do him the world of good. John calls the next day, and the next, and the next. It cheers Sherlock greatly to hear his voice, and after a few weeks he starts to get a foothold on normal life again. They do relaxing, undemanding, companionable things, and gradually the light begins to come back into his eyes, but she would be a fool if she thought they'd even begun to unravel his complexity.

After a couple of months she notices the old sarcastic remarks coming back into his vocabulary. It’s nice to have her sparring partner back again. She is careful to keep the Watsons visiting regularly, keep him grounded in reality. Still, she has no idea what turmoil, what inner hell he is dealing with.

His confidence in his own abilities increases. It’s a real landmark when he drives himself to the dentist, eats in an unfamiliar restaurant, does the shopping. Janine tries very hard not to be patronising.

When they go out he sometimes forgets his filters and casually insults people. Secretly she doesn’t mind; if Sherlock is snarky, it makes her feel like all is right with the world. Occasionally they clash; he says the wrong thing to people; she’s smothering him; he says she treats him like a child; she’s angry because he won’t fight to be well. Her frustration comes from her secret longing for him to take her in his arms, but he always keeps her at a respectful distance and never mentions the liaison they once had. It is like a dagger to her heart every time their skin accidentally touches.

The question of his drug abuse is a spectre always at the back of her mind, but as his strength grows, so does her confidence that he has left that part of his life behind for good.

Altogether they have a pleasant existence, Janine working on her books and Sherlock taking an increasing interest in the garden and the apiary. She once considered giving the hives away, but when she remembered the way Sherlock had talked about bees all those years ago in his flat, she felt sorry for them. Now she’s glad she didn’t get rid of them. Studying the insects’ habits gives him time and space to reflect. He commandeers her garden shed and it turns into a Man-shed. He hangs a punch-bag in there too.

The psychiatrist, Dr Vanderford, becomes an important part of their lives. He is quite the intellectual and he and Sherlock have long debates about Nietzsche and Buddhism late into the night, sitting by the fire in his Harley Street office.

Sherlock continues to make unprecedented progress, and one day, about a year after he arrives, he sits her down and explains what happened to him when he was away. Anything that takes a man over a year to say out-loud can’t be good. She’s almost afraid to hear it, in case the knowledge of it changes her feelings for him and she loses him all over again. She says she’d rather not know. They are happy; why spoil things? But she knows it will kill him if he is not validated.

***

They sit side by side on the wrought iron bench in the back garden, not looking at each other, but across the countryside and down to the sea. She closes her eyes as he speaks.

Sherlock tells her that he pursued his quarry all over the Americas, falling irresistibly in with gun smugglers, drug dealers and a corrupt branch of the ATF. He called in favours and contacts he’d made on the Frank Hudson case almost a decade ago. He was once again swallowed by the underworld. Eventually, two years after he’d left town, he traced Molly’s killer to Cartegena.

"Nino Duarte, the Brazilian contract killer, was almost as good at hiding as me. So I set up a job. Duarte had no idea that the customer was only there because I'd talked to him and encouraged him to have a contract put out on his heiress wife. I burst into the motel room while the deal was in progress, but when I laid eyes on Duarte’s face for the first time, the force of my own emotions knocked me for six. I was prepared for everything else, but not that." At this point, Janine works her fingers into his and gives them a squeeze of encouragement. Sherlock continues. "I scared off the customer with a couple of warning shots from this contraband Glock 27 I'd lifted at the docks and tore right into Duarte, shot him in the knee first. Duarte was quick, but not as quick as me. Then I beat him around the face until my knuckles were broken. I told him that I was going to feed him his own balls before I splattered his brain all over the cum-stained motel."

"Did you," she hardly dares to ask, "shoot him in the head?"

"I had the gun pressed to Duarte’s temple when I realised that killing him wouldn’t bring me any peace. Nothing would change the fact that Molly was gone. She would hate the idea that I'd lost myself to this foolish vendetta. I'd already wasted two years of my life trying to do something for her that she wouldn’t have wanted. I was forced to examine when this had stopped being a case that needed solving, and had started being an excuse to exorcise my demons and mutilate someone in anger. I'd become a monster."

“You’re not a monster,” says Janine, “Molly loved you, and you loved her in your own way.”

“I promised to protect her and she died alone and in pain. I can never forgive myself for that.”

"You must."

"In the end I spared Duarte’s life and held my shit together long enough to drop him off at the _Policía Metropolitana_ along with a recording of his meeting with the client. Hopefully he'll be rotting in prison for a long time, if he survived his injuries."

"But how did you end up in Tibet?" Janine frowns. "Why didn't you come home?"

"I just," he falters for the first time in his tale, "wandered the city, got drunk and ended up doing cocaine with a bunch of gap-year students from Aberdeen, of all places."

"Jaysus, Sherl," she shakes her head.

"I think it must have been laced with mescaline because I started hallucinating."

With the guilt of what he’d done to Duarte, without his cause, or the closure he thought revenge would bring him, he was lost. He doesn’t remember what happened after that, but when he came to, he was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, over four thousand miles away. He only had a vague sense of direction by then and there was nothing on the horizon.

He had to drink his own piss.

He stumbled, sick and confused, into a deserted town called Zzyzx. The very last word in the English language. It was surreal and unlikely, but the settlement contained a natural spring, flowing into a small lake. Sherlock fell upon the water like a demon, wading up to his chest like a perverse baptism. Somehow he made it to Route 15 and flagged down a Shell oil truck. How he got to Tibet, he doesn’t exactly know, but it probably has something to do with the fact that his homing instinct kicked in and he still had a fake passport in his pocket.

When he's finished, Janine pulls him into a hug, cradles his head and says it’s no wonder it’s so painful for him. It is all very difficult to come to terms with.

It becomes apparent that he suffered a complete nervous breakdown and lost the ability to function as a human being, neither communicating, nor knowing night from day. His conversations with Vanderford have revealed that he's still traumatised by the abuse he received as a child and the torture he suffered in Serbia, and hadn’t been allowed the grace to recover. That had been Mycroft’s fault.

He asks her again if any of it changes the way she feels about him.

“Why would you even think that?”

“Because the worst thing that happened was that my obsession stopped us from being together.”

They cry together, about what he did, about Molly. Through the tears they get closer and closer until they are kissing. The kissing gets more and more passionate until she finds herself leading him by the hand, up the stairs and into her bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Sugar for Honeycomb

It is rushed, joyously awkward and most importantly, cathartic. Afterwards they discuss what it means if they think they are ready for a proper relationship. Sherlock isn’t sure. Next time he sees John, he asks him if he thinks regular sex with Janine is a good idea. John just slaps him on the back and laughs, muttering something about Sherlock being ‘back’ as he walks away.

When Sherlock returns home that night, Janine has moved his things into her bedroom and turned the spare room into an office for him. His old pictures are on the wall, the bust of Mendeleev looks down from the bookcase and she has bought him a new desk. At first she thinks that he’ll be mad at her, but he kisses her and says it’s the nicest surprise he’s ever had.

Now that they are sleeping together, Janine realises the extent to which the nightmares have been affecting him. It saddens her that she never had the opportunity to comfort him through the terrors all that time, when there was only a wall separating them. He was always quiet. He must have been so strong.

Occasionally he still wakes up fighting off invisible enemies, but she knows what to do and strokes his hair until he remembers where he is.

They talk about his work. He feels like he can be a force for good in the world. He needs purpose. She is worried that he will be consumed as he once was, but gradually, he begins to read about unsolved mysteries. He is sensible, no longer needs a case to feel alive. His mind is as sharp as before, yet somehow more disciplined. He no longer loses himself in problem solving and always makes sure he eats and sleeps adequately.

As the years pass, and Sherlock begins to shed the signs that he’d ever been ill, life starts to take a few twists and turns.

Sherlock helps Billy get clean and get his life back on track.

At first, Janine is doubtful about having Billy to stay, but when she sees Sherlock’s tenderness in caring for his friend through the withdrawal, she knows that they have done the right thing.

One afternoon Sherlock visits a nearby farm on detective business and returns a few hours later with a storm over his face. Janine is rightly concerned when he slams the door and marches into the kitchen without taking his muddy boots off. She asks him what the hell happened. Wrapped in Sherlock's coat is a border collie puppy, the runt of the litter, her legs broken and atrophied from abuse and neglect. Sherlock calls her Roxborough, after the Oxford don. Their lives quickly descend into an endless round of visits to the vet.

Janine’s exposé of Charles Magnussen’s life also becomes a best seller, although she down-plays Sherlock’s part in the whole affair, relegating him to the part of the tragic fiancé who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There is great speculation about the identity of the ‘burglar’ who shot Sherlock and who eventually murdered Magnussen. The conspiracy theorists drive most of her sales.

Sherlock never tells Janine that it was Mary who shot him. He doesn’t like having secrets, but the truth would spoil the valuable friendship that the two women have cultivated. Their relationship doesn’t seem to suffer from the fact that it is built on a lie. How can he tell Janine that her best friend broke into her office, brained her with a night-stick and shot her boyfriend? Besides, if he did tell her, Mary would probably murder him properly this time.

Janine never tells Sherlock that she knew it was Mary all along. She doesn’t like having secrets, but she knows Sherlock likes her to have friends. Mary is exciting and dangerous. They share the same sick sense of humour. She’d rather keep Mary around than anyone else, even if she did shoot her boyfriend.

Sherlock buys several neglected violins and spends a lot of time renovating them. He plays for Janine in the evenings, but is dismayed to find he cannot remember some of his favourite pieces and has to resort to sheet music.

He regularly meets Greg for a pint.

Mycroft is killed by a terrorist bomb at his office in Whitehall. After his death there is a media feeding frenzy. Mycroft’s life was far more sordid than Sherlock’s had ever been, and provides them with far meatier stories. One of those stories is how the government managed to hide Eurus from the public for so long. It’s never clear if she does it because of Mycroft or because Sherlock hasn’t visited her for so long, but she hangs herself with her violin strings soon after Myc’s death. Sherlock blames himself of course, but reasons that she was gone long before she died, and it was a mercy in the end. He should be mourning, he says, but all he feels is relief.

Janine keeps a very careful eye on him.

At the funeral Janine gets to meet Sherlock’s parents. She is rather surprised that his parents know nothing of his breakdown, and the fact that he had been missing, presumed dead, doesn’t seem to phase them at all. They are all quite used to him going walkabout or not talking to them for long periods of time. The only thing that surprises them is the fact that he is living with a woman. She has a hard time convincing them she is not the same person who filled the papers with vulgar stories of Sherlock’s supposed sexual prowess. She and Sherlock even laugh about that afterward.

Sherlock distracts himself by getting involved with the police again, helping Greg Lestrade train a group of professional civilian ‘rememberers’. He teaches them visualisation techniques he develops. They are faster and more reliable than the computer systems the police service generally uses to match faces and fingerprints. The programme is a huge success.

Janine thrives, enjoying the time she spends renovating the house at the same time as negotiating royalties for the screenplay of _Magnussen_. She is ruthless and drives a hard bargain, coming on board as executive producer. It gets her out of the house and stops her being so reclusive. Sherlock tells her he loves her every day. He does it in a different language or accent each time, which makes her laugh. But even though he is mocking the fact that he finds it hard to say, she knows he means it.

One morning Sherlock receives a letter from the Royal Society of Chemistry. It has been forwarded from Baker Street. They want to give him an honorary fellowship based on his paper analysing the 243 types of tobacco ash, which has helped solve dozens of crimes. Sherlock is stunned. He doesn’t even remember telling anyone about it. It turns out that John secretly approached the society years ago and they only just got around to testing his methods. Sherlock and Janine go to a special dinner at the Criterion and he gives a speech. It is a huge milestone for Sherlock, who found public speaking difficult even before his ordeal. They hold their heads high and ignore the gossip about his acquittal and disappearance, and Sherlock aces it. When they award him the fellowship she thinks she will burst with pride.

After this he starts dressing smartly again. He starts using letters after his name. She even has it printed on business cards. He starts going into the city and various universities to give lectures about his work. The Royal Society allow him to use their labs. He even starts working cold cases for the Met, although in a strictly advisory capacity. No more running across rooftops for him.

Mrs Hudson dies. It is not unexpected as she was unwell for a while. Janine is surprised that Sherlock doesn’t cry, he’s become rather an emotional person since the great watershed of 2018. He says he misses her, but there’s nothing to be sad about. She had no regrets. She was greatly loved. It would be better to save the tears for someone who wasn’t happy with their life.

John does cry, though.

Sherlock and Mike Stamford establish a scholarship fund in Molly’s name. Every academic year brings a new Medical student into their lives.

They begin to have people to visit a lot more often. Even Henry Knight comes to stay a few times, sleeping on the sofa-bed in the lounge. They spend riotous evenings around the kitchen table. Henry still rolls his own cigarettes, no matter how much money he has. Sherlock confides in Janine that he worries Henry hasn’t quite found his way in life yet.

One night, Sherlock comes home and announces that he is going to get his PhD in forensics. He wants to be taken more seriously in the academic community. Janine is not as excited for him as he hopes. It’ll be too much, she says, he’ll burn out and they’ll be back to square one, only it will be worse this time. He caresses her face and tells her she’s not going to lose him. Eventually she acquiesces, not that he needs her permission…

It takes him two years to complete his thesis on the analysis of lead-free ammunition by scanning electron microscopy using energy dispersive x-ray spectroscopy and discrimination of samples using principal components. Only God knows how he convinced them to let him use a firing range with his criminal record.

The day he receives his doctorate she tells him she is pregnant. Sherlock never though he would reach this point in his life. He is ecstatic, restless, terrified. He researches everything he can to try and take care of her. It takes Janine a lot longer to get used to the idea. She worries about Sherlock more than she worries about herself. He’s barely gotten used to taking care of himself. How is he going to take care of her, let alone with a medically complicated pregnancy? He convinces her that everything will be alright. They have the stability and resources to raise a child. They are capable people, they will work this out. She realises that he has grown up, and that everything he’s been through might actually have made him better. She grows to love the idea that they will be a family.

Then the world comes crashing down. Together they discover that there are things in life more devastating still than dying or losing your friends.

He deals with it in his own way, of course, which nowadays is a healthy amount of shouting and punching things. He feels powerless because, for all his achievements, all his intelligence, he cannot keep their baby from dying.

He never tells Janine, but one night while she is away, he goes and stands on the end of Brighton pier and screams. It is the pure, guttural sound from the beginning of time and he sobs his way to the end of himself. He doesn’t believe in God, but no-one else has the answers. He wants to know why he had to bury his son. He heard somewhere that God did that too.

For a while Janine worries that it will plunge him back into a deep depression, but it soon becomes apparent that on his journey to the gates of hell and back he has learned that you cannot stop life happening, that you cannot keep yourself from feeling things. Spending time with the Watsons helps to assuage the pain a little, but Janine never loses the desire to hold her own child in her arms. Sherlock’s child. She takes to swanning around the house in a silk nightdress, stops calling people, stops going out, never strays far from her books.

They go through seasons where they argue a lot, mainly about stupidly trivial things.

She cooks.

He meditates.

Life goes on.


	6. Chapter 6

Naked Lunch

“So,” Billy’s boyfriend Tristan pops an olive into his mouth, “you guys do this every year?”

“Most of us,” says Sherlock, taking stock of those around the table, “it’s part reunion, part effort to make sure John doesn’t forget me now that he’s a best-selling author.” He smiles at Janine and his eyes crinkle attractively. She holds his gaze.

She has decorated the garden with bunting, wherever it will actually stay up, and paper lanterns hang from the apple tree. It is a warm April day, and petals drop on the tables she’s lashed together, covered with white cloths. The tables are differing heights and they’ve had to raid every chair in the house, but somehow they manage to accommodate everyone.

“I’m new,” Li-Xue, Greg’s wife, holds her hand up. Greg beams at her appreciatively.

Billy is there, and Tristan of course—Mary and John and their daughter Rosie – and Sherlock’s protégé slash teaching assistant, Malin.

“Mrs Holmes," Billy holds up a small red jewel he’s found in his lunch, "can you tell me what this is, please?” 

“That’s called a pomegranate, Billy,” says Janine, “and don’t call me Mrs Holmes, you know he’s not my husband.”

“What is he then?” John smirks as Billy resumes his systematic deconstruction of the tabbouleh.

“He’s just a one-night stand that got out of hand,” says Janine.

Sherlock studiously ignores them, pouring himself water.

“Where's Rosie?" says John. "I’ll be damned if she’s going to spend all day on that bloody iPad.”

“I’ll go.” Sherlock puts down his napkin and scrapes back his chair. “I need to get the champagne, anyway.” He makes his apologies and bends to give one-year-old Fay an upside-down kiss. Her eyelashes flutter and her sticky hands make a grab at her daddy’s hair, but he is gone.

Roxy follows at his heels, and as he reaches the halfway point across the garden, Sherlock looks back and smiles. It is quite a picture to behold.

***

Rose, as she has often informed everyone she wants to be called now, is standing at the kitchen counter with her head bowed to a newspaper, mousy hair hanging over her face. She’s thirteen, going on thirty-five, and right in the middle of that phase where you start writing poetry.

“Hey you,” Sherlock says, reaching for the fridge. She usually says ‘hey you’ right back, but today all he receives is a sniff. “What’s the matter?” He comes closer.

She’s been crying.

“Hey,” she finally manages, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

“Oh,” he lets out with dismay, seeing what she’s found in the paper, “you don’t want to be reading this. Honestly, If I ever get my hands on that Kitty Riley again, I’m going to - ” Then he stops himself and takes the paper, searching her face. “You know I’m trying very hard to be a good man, don’t you?”

“It’s not that,” she looks up at him with red eyes, “it’s just that it’s so very unfair.” She sniffs again, wipes her nose with her other sleeve.

He hugs her sideways round the shoulders. “You don't have to worry about boring old me.”

She rests her head on his arm. “It’s just, they won’t leave you alone, even after all this time. They just see a killer; they don’t see the man who used to build me scale models of the Tower Bridge out of Lego, or change the words of _The Hungry Caterpillar_ to make me laugh, or - or who found me when I ran away.”

“That’s just the way the world operates, I’m afraid.” He has no answers for her.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

"Sure. Fire away."

"Who's Molly?"

"Molly," he says, and it's not that he's forgotten, it's that he doesn't know enough words, "Molly was your Godmother."

"It's just that the paper - "

"Oh," he says. "I suppose I'd better explain. She was... my friend. One of my very best friends, in fact, and she was always there for me, for John and me, and she... she used to buy me cake on my birthday."

"Cake," Rosie laughs and for a second he thinks that she might be prettier even than Mary, even with her lank hair and 90's outfit, "I've never seen you eat cake."

"No, I suppose you haven't." He looks at the newspaper again, fingers it on the table. Molly's name is written there somewhere, although he daren't try to find it. "Anyway she died - was killed, rather - when she stood in court as a witness in my defense. I told her not to do it, but she always had to do what's right. She knew, you see, was the only one who knew, that the government didn't give me a choice."

"What happened?"

"Assassin had a state of the art air-powered polymer rifle. Took me years to catch him."

"I wish I could have met her."

"What are you talking about? We couldn't keep her away from you."

"Sherlock," she gives him a lopsided smile, "kids can't remember what happened when they were one year old."

***

“How’s he doing?” John says quietly to Janine as she slices more baguette.

“You know Sherlock, he researches the hell out of everything until he’s pro. Sometimes I catch him waking her up from a nap just to play. I keep telling him - ”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Janine looks across the garden, as if his imprint on the grass could tell her his fortune. “I think he’s having a midlife crisis.”

“You – why’s that?”

“The other day I found a packet of Marlboro lights in the shed.”

“Shit. Well at least they’re low tar.”

“I’m just being dramatic, John,” she laughs, “he’s fine. Something I’ve learned about Sherlock is that his superhuman abilities include the capacity to heal great harm. Himself as well as others.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Don’t you think fatherhood suits him, though? He gets to be the boss and he gets to be silly at the same time.”

“We always knew he’d be great,” says John, “I mean, Rosie's always adored him, his students absolutely adore him. Even if he does get a bit creative with the insults sometimes.”

They laugh together, thinking about the man they both love so much. John sighs. “I’d better go and see what’s happened. We need that champagne, if not the pair of them.”

***

When John comes into the kitchen the two are sharing a joke about the over eager reporters.

“John,” says Sherlock.

“Hey Daddy,” says Rosie, wiping her eyes once more. They are red and they clash with her pink sweatshirt.

“Oh, Sweetheart. Come and give your old man a hug.”

She goes to him, snakes her arms around his waist.

“We were just deconstructing this tabloid tripe they still insist upon calling news,” Sherlock explains.

John cranes his neck and peeks at the paper. “Not this old shit again,” he says, fixed in his little girl’s embrace.

Sherlock ruffles the pages. “Language, John.”

It’s not front-page news anymore, but Kitty has done a piece titled _‘Why is This Man Still Allowed to Walk Free?’_

“Well, that’s particularly scathing, isn’t it?” says John, “Rosie sweetheart, go and finish your lunch.”

She slopes off with her head still bowed in thought. Sherlock folds the paper and goes to the fridge for the champagne once again.

“You could sue them for libel, you know.”

“Why? It’s all true. I killed all those people because the government asked me to. They can say what they want, but it’s only opinions. I’m the one who to has to live with it.”

“It’s not like they didn’t deserve it, though.” John taps his nails on the wooden table.

“That’s what you get, you rid the world of a bunch of serial killers, terrorists and traffickers, and they rip you to shreds for the rest of your life. Doesn’t matter if I’m completely exonerated and the government takes responsibility for exploiting - ”

“A vulnerable young man?” says John.

Sherlock looks down, the champagne in his hand forming drops of condensation. “They still only care who pulled the trigger.”

“As long as it doesn’t affect your family. I mean, what are you going to tell her when she grows up? That her father was an MI6 agent who slaughtered half of the world’s villains and changed the landscape of UK politics and the security services forever?”

“I don’t know. When you say it like that, it’s a lot to take in. What have you told Rosie about her mum?”

“I’m not going to tell her until she starts bringing boys home,” John declares.

They begin the walk back to the garden. “I’m never even letting Fay anywhere near a boy,” Sherlock says seriously, “she’s going to an all-girls school and she’s getting a chastity belt the moment she hits puberty.”

“Yeah, good luck with that, mate.”

***

Janine starts clapping her hands frantically as they cross the garden, “Whoop, champagne!”

“She hasn’t even had any yet,” says Sherlock, putting it on the table.

“Oops,” she shrugs, setting out glasses.

Rose shakes the willow tree for Fay, who toddles around trying to catch the fluffy seeds. “Look Fairuza,” she says, “fairies!”

“Honestly,” John leans in to Sherlock discretely, as the other man struggles with the cork, “one minute they’ve got the weight of the world on their shoulders, and the next; they’ve turned back into little princesses in frilly pink frocks.”

Mary lifts Fay onto her knee and Rosie wraps her arms around Mary, smooshing their cheeks together.

The champagne finally pops.

“What would you know about frilly pink frocks, anyway?” says Sherlock, pouring. “It was always me who had to dress as a woman when we were undercover, Doctor Watson.”

“And a very pretty princess you made too, Doctor Holmes.” John's eyes are full of pride.

“Actually it’s ‘Professor’ now, thank you very much.”

“You always have to have the last word, don’t you Professor?”

“What’s this about frocks?" Janine looks at them. "You never told me any of that.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Sherlock whispers, then louder, “and now a toast to absent friends and family. Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people who are in your life, who want you in theirs. The ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would do anything to see you smile and who love you no matter what.”

“Here, here,” Janine raises her glass.

Sherlock continues, “to Henry. To Mike. To Mycroft. To Martha. To Molly.”

There is a respectful silence while everyone considers his words and remembers those who have been taken from them by illness, or have laid down their lives for others, as in the tragic case of Henry Knight, who last year saved a girl from drowning in Cornwall.

“ _Sláinte!”_ shouts Janine. Everyone clinks their glasses and dissolves into drinking and conversation again. She turns to Sherlock, “you got that speech from Pinterest, didn’t you?”

“You know me so well.”

***

Hours later, when Sherlock has replaced the tables and all the chairs in their proper places and is loading the dishwasher, Janine comes down the stairs and stops by to give him a quick kiss on the lips.

“Hey, don’t I get more than that?” he pouts, catching her.

She does an about-turn and tangles her fingers in his. She tiptoes up to whisper in his ear. “Later.” They stand like that, hands clasped for a moment longer, looking into each other’s eyes. Finally she adds, “where is everybody?”

“Billy and Tristan took Mal home and everyone else is in the sitting room watching your latest movie.”

“Sherlock, that movie isn’t suitable for anyone under eighteen.”

“Well, John will probably cover her eyes when it gets to the sexy bits.” He hears tinkling coming from upstairs, a music box he found in a junk-shop that plays 'Never on a Sunday'. “Fay went down Okay, then.”

“She was absolutely banjaxed. Must’ve been when she got hold of your Cellotape.”

“What about my nap?”

“All in good time. Now you need to tell me all about this cross-dressing business.”

Sherlock blushes slightly. They play a pushing, pulling game with their hands. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you do with it?”

“With what?”

“With your junk, Sherl,” she laughs.

“Well,” he searches his memory while she pushes and pulls him a little more, letting her hair fall back, “with training, it’s perfectly possible to push your balls back up where they came from, and the rest you can just tuck it in between and keep it in place with a really tight pair of tighty-whiteys. What?”

“Oh, you have to show me that later.”

“I will not,” he growls “I will take you in a manly fashion over my desk.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Just answer me one question.”

“Okay.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

He waits a moment, watching her, battling her hands. “It was all in the name of work.”

“Did you pass?”

“With this nose? I wasn’t playing a woman. I was playing a man playing a woman.”

“All this time,” she shakes her head.

Just then, Rosie comes in.

“What do you want, now?” Sherlock says impatiently. His words are directed at Rosie, but his eyes are still directed at Janine.

“Dad sent me to get his scotch. He doesn’t want me to see penises and stuff.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still on Janine. She smirks childishly. He sighs. “It’s on the side. By the _La Mare Poulard_ tin.”

“The poo what? I don’t see it.” Rose searches fruitlessly.

“It’s French. The tin. The biscuit tin. It's got a picture of _Mont Saint Michel_ on it. Yes. That one. And there’s the whiskey. Now get out of here.”

He is so curt that she looks at them both. “Oh, sorry. Were you two sharing a hashtag ‘moment’?”

“Go. Away.”

She disappears.

“Do people really still say that?” says Janine.

“Apparently so. It’s having somewhat of an ironic revival. Only among teenagers, though. That and sushi and Ant and Dec - ”

“You’re waffling again.”

“Sorry. Ahem. To business then.” He recovers his composure and remembers what he was doing.

“What’s wrong?” She laughs, but Sherlock is suddenly serious. He untangles his hands and takes a seat at the kitchen table. He handles a small box he has left there. She hadn’t noticed it until now.

“Sherlock, you’re kinda scaring me. I don’t like it when you do this.”

He pulls her closer and says very solemnly, “I think it’s time.” His eyes search some unseen place in the future, while his hand turns the box over and over like a magician.

“Is - is that what I think it is?”

He opens the box. “No, of course not. You don’t think I’d be that vulgar do you? No, this one belonged to my mother. It was the only thing they left me in their will. It has a rough-cut diamond in it, which my great grandfather dug up with his own bare hands in the jungles of Rhodesia, as it was then called.”

“It’s beautiful, but - ”

“Janine,” Sherlock takes a deep breath, holding very tightly onto her hand.

She pulls away and squeezes her eyes shut. “Stop,” she says unexpectedly.

Sherlock looks up at her then, face full of confusion. “Wh - ”

“I can’t let you do this. It’s not right.”

“What are you talking about?” he says very quickly, “I thought you wanted - ”

“Because,” she makes him sweat for a second. “It’s my turn.”

He smiles with relief, and she continues, a tinge of hesitation in her voice. He’s never heard her speak with less than 100% confidence before. “Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?”

He looks at her for a while, his face contorting though all kinds of subtle emotions. “Yes,” he says, “a million times yes.”

They embrace desperately. She runs her fingers through his hair, peppered with grey now. He wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face, tenderly kisses her stomach where her shirt has ridden up. Yes, it is scarred but the scars are a counterpoint to his scars, they show where they have been.

_Finis_


End file.
